Bleed For You
by The Good Girl
Summary: He thought he could do it. Maybe, if he swallowed his pride. But he couldn't, his pride was too strong, too overpowering all he could do was close his eyes and pray to God he'd wake up from this nightmare. A Spot story.
1. Lottie

**Author Note: **I had this story saved for a little while, but for some reason I just got the urge to post it. Let me know what you think of it.

**Disclaimer: **I think we all know I don't own anything from Newsies. I own Lottie Crewe and any other OC's...hell I don't even own the plot...well, at least not the initial set up. Props to StormShadow21 for helping me out with this idea!

* * *

Lottie Crewe studied herself in the mirror that hung over the old oak bureau Miss Velvadine had given to her as a sort of welcome gift. Her stomach was full of knots; her fists were sweaty and her complexion becoming increasingly clammy. Her long, freshly curled dark hair was pulled away from her face by several pins and hung loosely over her shoulders. Her green eyes felt heavy. The dress in which Lady, Miss Velvadine's assistant, had given Lottie was probably two sizes too small. But, as Miss Velvadine and Lady insisted, the tighter the dress was the better the pay. Lottie frowned at her reflection—what the hell was she doing? She had no idea—she felt uncomfortable and embarrassed in the tight, blood red dress—it was lined with black lace and made her look much more filled out than her sixteen year old body truly was. Her eyes had been traced in smoky black make-up, and her lips glazed with rouge. She felt exactly as she was—nothing but a cheap whore.

But she wasn't. She hadn't even kissed a boy yet alone a man before. And by the way Miss Velvadine and the other girls residing in The Widow's Rose had smiled slyly and whispered behind Lottie's back, she had quite a strong feeling she would be expected to do much more than just kiss men.

This wasn't where she was supposed to be—this wasn't how she was supposed to live. Her mother would be so ashamed of her, God rest her soul. Lottie was supposed to be attending school, learning how to become a proper wife, she was supposed to be living in a warm home with loving parents, not kissing men until she was ready to be married. She wasn't supposed to look like this—she wasn't supposed to be living in a room the size of a closet, she wasn't supposed to be following orders from a cruel and dangerous woman who was never seen without a cigarette in her hand, she wasn't supposed to be doing what she was doing. So how had she ended up here? In this whore house, looking the way she did, about to give up the one gift she would never, ever be able to get back.

Miss Velvadine had lied to her. When she had found Lottie scrubbing the floors of an old, dirty cloth shop in which she made a nickel an hour, two weeks ago, she had said she was looking for a girl to fill in for a little at the Widow's Rose. Lottie knew what kind of place The Widow's Rose was. Her mother had warned her to steer clear away from fifty second street, for the shabby building on the corner held women who had sinned so badly, and men so cruel and filthy. But Lottie had been a mess when Miss Velvadine had found her—she had said she just needed a girl to sew dresses for the working girls of the Widow's Rose. But one thing had led to another and somehow Lottie had been stupid enough to fall into the trap of a money grubbing, middle aged woman.

Taking a shaky breath, Lottie glanced one last time at her reflection. This was it. Lady had given her the basic rules—no conversation, smile sweetly, give him what he wants, and take the money, leave. That was it. Lady had told Lottie that when men requested the presence of one of the Widow's girls outside of the Widow's Rose, it meant he paid well. It was Lottie's first client, so she had to make the very best first impression she could.

Lottie turned away from the mirror and felt nothing but shame. She shoved the guilty feeling out of her mind and took another breath. As soon as she had enough money saved up to leave the Widow's Rose, Lottie was gone. She didn't want to waste her days away at the Widow's Rose forever. There was too much beyond Brooklyn.

Just as Lottie reached for the doorknob, a loud knocking made her jump. She was a nervous wreck, and every little thing seemed to tick her off. Opening the door, she was greeted with the sight of Lady, looking Lottie up and down to make sure she looked exactly the way men wanted her to look.

"Your client is not a patient man Lottie," Lady growled. She was a foul old thing—she had to be at least fifty-five, and didn't even reach five feet. She had a hunch back and her hair was sure to hold living creatures inside. She smelled always of rotten onions. Needless to say, she was not something pleasant to look at…or smell. "Since you'se is taken the place of his usual mistress for tonight, since Spice is busy with another, his expectations are high."

Lottie nodded, trying to breathe through her mouth; she was afraid she'd vomit if she spoke. Lady turned and Lottie quickly followed her down the dark corridor lined with doors of all the rooms of the girls of Widow's Rose. Lottie closed her eyes and put her hands to her face. She had no idea what she was doing. She knew only one thing—she needed money, and this seemed the fastest way. The more money she had, the faster she could get out of this whore house, and the better off she was.

With a push from Lady and a scribbled note of her client's address, Lottie was sent off into the night.

Spot Conlon stared out the window of his secluded bedroom, watching the dark street below him. His head was pounding—he had managed to sell all of his papes that day, but it had been more exhausting than usual. Everyday it seemed it became a greater struggle to drag himself out of bed and sell papers—he didn't really know why he had suddenly become so lazy, but he figured he might get some of his energy back if he was paid a visit by one of the lovely ladies of the Widow's Rose. His stress level had been up to its' highest lately. More and more of his boys and the boys of Manhattan and Queens were getting jumped by the boys of Harlem and the Bronx. In two days, Spot, Jack and the leader of Queens, Blaze, were meeting to discuss ways to stop all of the fights. Harlem and the Bronx were in alliance, and if something wasn't done to figure out why exactly they were beating up the boys of Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Queens, there was going to be a big, big problem. And it wasn't like the boys getting jumped were capable of fighting—they were all under fifteen, puny, the littlest runts of each borough. If it was one thing Spot despised, it was a coward. Harlem and the Bronx were nothing but cowards full of shit, and Spot held a loathing for each borough so fierce it burned inside of him.

Needless to say, he was in desperate need of a woman's touch. When he was first informed that Spice, his usual visitor, would not be joining him that night, he had been pissed off. Spice had been over almost every other night for the past six months, and Spot was growing quite fond of what she had in store for him each time. If the girl who was on her way to his room wasn't as satisfying as Spice, he was going to be even more pissed off.

Running his hands through his hair, he leaned his tall and lanky body against the wall beside the large window. His neck was tense, and his hands were calloused and dry. Reaching into the back pocket of his pants, he retrieved a cigarette and a match. Lighting up, he inhaled the sweet nicotine taste and instantly he was relaxed. Beginning to pace his room, he was growing impatient. Where was the damn girl? He was getting antsy—now Spot Conlon wasn't _nervous—_he had become quite skilled over the years with women ever since his fifteenth birthday. In celebration of the big one five, a bunch of the older newsies had taken him over to the Widow's Rose and gotten him his own personal girl for the night. That was the night Spot Conlon discovered the wonders a man and a woman could do together. But that was a long time ago—four years. Of course, in those four years he had earned himself a reputation with the ladies, and had become the most feared and tough leader Brooklyn ever had. But as the minutes ticked away, Spot was getting a bit apprehensive. Was the girl ever going to show up?

Just as he finished his cigarette and put out the bud on his dresser, there was a hesitant knock at his door. Smirking to himself, he made sure he had enough money to pay the broad, and strode over to his door. _Finally_, he thought.

Opening the door, Spot studied the girl in front of him. She didn't look anything like Spice, who was tall and lean with long blonde curls and blue eyes that rivaled his own. This girl was slightly shorter and curvier—she had dark hair, but it was too dark to tell the hue of her eyes. She was wringing her hands nervously and her eyes met his reluctantly. He'd never seen her before, and he'd seen many of the girls at Widow's Rose. _New blood_, he thought bitterly.

"Come in," he muttered, stepping aside as the girl entered his bedroom. He was going to have a talk with Miss Velvadine the next time he wanted one of their girls to come to his room. He was their most popular client among the girls—most of the time five or six got into fights to spend their company in the presence of Spot Conlon. He sure as hell didn't pay for a newbie.

Spot gently closed the door and turned around. Immediately he could feel the tension in the room. The girl was still wringing her hands nervously, and her head was down; her eyes glued to the dusty floor. She was young, that was for sure. Had to be fifteen or sixteen—Spot didn't have time for this. He wanted his money's worth. Sighing, he figured he'd just have to do all the work. He was going to get _something_ out of the girl—she was pretty enough, nothing special just some nice features except for all that black eye makeup, had real pale skin and rosy, rosy cheeks—not his first preference, obviously, but she would have to do. She just looked real young. The girl looked up hesitantly at Spot and he got the impression the girl had no idea who he was, which was odd since just about everyone, especially girls, knew who Spot Conlon was. Maybe she was from out of town.

Closing the distance between them with three graceful strides, Spot quickly slid his arm around her waist and was just about to place his lips on her own rouge ones when he felt her back stiffen. Did she not know what she was doing at all? Did she expect them to play cards or chat? Inwardly rolling his eyes, Spot tried to focus on the desire to rid his stress, and lowered his head only centimeters from her lips. He was seconds from kissing her when she took a sharp breath and looked into his eyes.

"Er—what'syourname?"

Spot almost didn't hear her—he was too shocked she had spoken and she had spoken so fast he could barely understand her. Most girls who'd never had Spot Conlon didn't _dare_ speak in his presence—not until they were with him a few more nights at least, if he was even that interested. Did they not train her properly over at the Widow's Rose? Didn't she know…the _rules?_

She was looking up at Spot hopefully, biting her lip. She was trembling slightly and looked purely afraid. Spot cleared his throat and lifted his head away from her mouth, cocking one eyebrow. He was slowly slipping out of his hunger for a woman's touch and exhaustion was overtaking his body. He wished the girl would just let him do what he wanted and be off. He had always hated girls who talked more than they should.

"Spot Conlon," he said flatly. The girls eyebrows raised and she nodded slightly, edging away slowly, but Spot had a firm grip around her waist. He wasn't going to let her go just yet. Maybe she just wanted to know his name before she did anything with him. That was understandable.

"Nice to meet you Spot," the girl said. Her voice was a bit unsteady, and again she tried backing up. Spot pulled her closer to him and lowered his head again but once more was he interrupted. "Don't you want to know my name?"

Spot bit his tongue and once again pulled away. _No,_ he felt like saying. _I could care less what your name is. Shut up_. But the girl's eyes were so afraid, and she didn't seem like she was going to go any further unless he knew her name.

"My name's Lottie Crewe," the girl said, not waiting for his answer. "Nice…place you got here Spot." She was really struggling to get out of his grasp. Not liking a woman who wasn't willing, Spot let go of her waist and almost instantly did she relax a bit. She stopped wringing her hands and dropped her eyebrows which were dangerously going to disappear in her hair.

"Thanks," he said, trying his best not to sound cranky. He wanted his money's worth, dammit. He was going to seriously have a talk with Miss Velvadine and Spice. Who did Miss Velvadine think she was, sending this inexperienced girl to him? He was used to the best of the best—when it came to women, of course—not girls like this girl. He just wasn't fond of the good girls.

He took a few steps toward the girl—Lottie—and she immediately backed away. "Um—you know… I like… cards. I know lots of cards. Card. Card games. Lots of card games. Yeah. Cards. You got any cards?" The girl was breathing a bit unevenly and was talking fast. Her eyes were darting around the bedroom like a cornered animal and Spot was starting to get really annoyed at the wringing of her hands.

Spot was getting irritated. He didn't have time for games. "I didn't ask Miss Velvadine tah send me a card player," he growled. "I'se ain't payin' use to play cards wit me."

"You're right," Lottie said. _Finally_, Spot thought for the second time that night. He reached out a hand to her waist. "Cards are boring anyway. Got any books? I like reading. Or painting. Painting's nice, but I'm not very good. I can sew though, but I doubt you can sew. Heh…oh I know! Have you've ever played _charades? _Huh? Oh it's a great game…yeah…we should play charades, it'll be—"

"Listen goil," Spot interrupted, rubbing the back of his head and sighing. He looked at her and shook his head. "I'se don't got time foah dis—just do what ye came heah tah do, and dat's dat."

Lottie bit her lip and her eyes grew wide in fear. Why was she so scared? Why was she even working at The Widow's Rose if she had no idea what she was doing?

"Uh—" the Lottie girl tried again. "Sure, yeah, let's just get this over with. Let's do what I came here to do…yeah. Come on. I'm ready…you ready? I'm so ready. Yeah. So…um…I'm ready. Did I say I was ready? I am. Let's…let's go."

Spot looked at the girl doubtfully and quirked his eyebrow. Trying to dismiss the look of panicked fear in the girl's eyes, Spot walked toward her and once again put his arms around her waist. She tensed up almost immediately but didn't try to struggle. Spot dipped his head once again and brushed his lips gingerly against the girl's, waiting to see if she would pull back. When she didn't, Spot deepened the kiss and felt the girl start to tremble. To his dismay, the girl didn't respond and just stood there in his arms, not moving. He began to feel sick with himself—it was quite a strange and awkward thing to kiss someone that did not respond whatsoever. Grimacing, he pulled back and looked at the girl, whose eyes were still open. This just wasn't what he was expecting. He sat down on his bed and patted the spot beside him. Lottie came slowly over to him and sat down, much farther away than he wanted. He inwardly groaned. This was turning into one hell of a waste of a night. He obviously wasn't getting what he wanted tonight…and after all he _was_ exhausted. And it's not like the girl was going to be any good anyway even if she did ever shut up. Spot just looked at the girl sitting in front of him, watching her wring her hands.

"How old are you Lottie?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

Lottie looked up at him and offered him a smile. How could she _smile_ when she was torturing him so? "Sixteen."

Sixteen…she was too young anyway. He always figured the younger ones were just easier, but not in this case. He'd had girls who were sixteen before, but they had always been so much more…experienced? Was he this fidgety around the opposite sex when he was sixteen? That was highly doubted. The girl's innocence and frightened demeanor were rapidly turning him off and he found himself feeling more like a babysitter than anything.

"How old are you Spot?" Lottie asked. She curled her legs up under her. Spot didn't even want her anymore—she was too young, too nervous, too everything a hooker wasn't supposed to be. But he was too tired to tell her to leave too, so he just sat there, on his bed, talking to a girl he was supposed to be…well doing other things than talking with.

"I'se an old man compared tah you'se," Spot said, looking at her. "Nineteen."

"That isn't too much older than me," Lottie said, frowning. "I probably just seem younger though. But I'm usually not like this—it's just when I'm nervous I talk a lot. I can't help it. I just babble and babble and babble and never stop. It's a bad habit I've had, like, forever. Oops. Like I am now—sorry. I should stop."

Spot smirked and almost laughed. He found it amusing how nervous she was. He _definitely _didn't want her now—not the way he had wanted her two minutes ago. But he could use the company…he just wished it wasn't _her_ company he was stuck with. However, it was still fairly early.

"How long you'se woiked at the Widow's Rose, Lottie?" Spot asked.

"Um…" Lottie played with a loose curl over her shoulder nervously. She seemed almost…embarrassed. "Tonight's my first night."

"Ah," Spot said, nodding his head. He ran his hands through his hair again—a nervous habit of his that he couldn't really control "Now I'se undahstand…what'd ya do befoah dis?" Spot figured that if they kept talking she would feel more comfortable around him and then hopefully she wouldn't be such a mess and actually make Spot's night worth something.

Lottie took a deep breath and hugged her knees to her chest, blocking, to Spot's dismay, a clear view down her dress.

"I was a painter. Painted all over the country—France, Italy, London—all over. I woke up at dawn and painted until the sunset and everything. It was amazing."

Spot raised his eyebrows, slightly impressed. "Really?"

"No. I worked at this cloth store on forty-ninth. But Miss Velvadine offered me a job and said I'd make much more money where she worked and that I didn't have to slave away at that store. Of course I had no idea what Miss Velvadine had in mind, but I always try to look on the bright side of things, you know—" here, Lottie took a breath and continued talking at quite a speed again. "So I figure once I got enough money saved up I'll be outta here and never have to wear these silly dresses again. I feel like a big red handkerchief or something—and it's itchy as hell, mind you." Lottie nodded and looked around Spot's bedroom.

Spot couldn't help but stare at the girl. She was fucking nuts. Did she _know_ just who she was talking to? Spot Conlon! No girl he had ever only just met so much as uttered a 'hello' to him. She was still wringing her hands nervously and it was all he could do to keep from ripping those hands right off the girl. Spot just frowned at the girl—his expression unreadable.

"Have you always been a newsie?"

Spot was shaken out of his momentary loss for words. He inwardly groaned. Lottie was looking at him, still hugging her knees to her chest, her green eyes wide and anxious. He cleared his throat.

"Um—yeah, ever since I'se was a little kid," Spot managed to say. He didn't even know why he continued talking to the girl. _Just tell her to leave already._ "I'se been on me on foah…evah, I'se guess."

Lottie just looked at him and sighed. "That has to be tough. I mean, I know when my mother died, holy goodness I was a mess. But I mean I just gotta keep movin', you know? Life's too short, 'specially 'round here."

Spot just nodded, trying to think of ways to get the girl out of his room. Maybe Spice was done whatever she had to do—hopefully she'd be free to come over.

"Well it's gettin' kinda late and I really don't wanna be wonderin' around Brooklyn in the late night." Lottie stood up from Spot's bed and tugged at a loose curl uncomfortably. "You don't have to pay me anything. I'm sorry I took up so much of your time. The night can just fly by I guess. Well, bye Spot." With that she gave him another smile and left the room, closing the door quietly.

Spot sat on his bed stunned. It was the first time he'd ever really been…rejected. But he wasn't really _rejected_.Fuck, he had no idea what the _hell_ had just happened. Was he…losing his touch? That couldn't be it. The girl was just crazy. She had to be. She never shut up and she didn't even like it when he touched her! Now _that_ was new! A girl not like to be touched by Spot Conlon…what was the world coming to?

Rubbing his neck, Spot just decided to go to bed. It had been one strange night. At least he'd never have to talk to that _Lottie_ girl ever again. That was somewhat of a comfort. Sighing, Spot was more exhausted then he thought and was out within minutes of lying his head down on his pillow.


	2. Meeting in Manhattan

Thanks to **Stormshadow 21** and **tudilovesyou** for reviewing! It is much appreciated.

**Disclaimer:** Still don't own a damn thing...well except for everyone at the Widow's Rose. Yep!

* * *

When Lottie returned to the Widow's Rose that night, the building was still bustling and loud with activity. Lottie figured it was still early—it was only a fifteen minute walk back from the Brooklyn Lodging House. She quickly entered the back door and made her way up the rickety stairs, trying hard to be silent. She didn't want Lady or Miss Velvadine bumping into her—she didn't feel like explaining the absence of money, or why she was back so soon. She figured Spot Conlon was an old customer, and Miss Velvadine wouldn't be too pleased to know he was denied service that night.

Lottie groaned, starting to pull the pins out of her hair as she crept down the hall. Why had she acted like such an ass tonight? She had completely choked—she was so afraid that this would happen. From the moment Miss Velvadine had smiled at her with that evil gleam in her eyes, she knew exactly what she had gotten herself into. She hadn't meant to become a _hooker_, of course, but she needed money the fastest way possible, and if that meant throwing her morals out the window for a few months then so be it. She just needed to get out of New York, to just leave everything behind and start over.

But, as Lottie turned the hall and started for the third floor, she realized she'd never get that money to leave if she didn't swallow her pride and do her job correctly. It was her first night, she reasoned. First time jitters. But those 'jitters' needed to be gone by tomorrow, or else she would be royally screwed. She couldn't believe she had embarrassed herself so badly. Her face burned hot as she remembered the expression on Spot's face the second he opened the door. She had never felt more stupid and immature than she had that night. He must have thought she was a foolish girl, too in over her head. Lottie pulled the last of the pins out and shook her head.

She was making this a bigger deal than it actually was…it was just _sex_, right? It was no big deal—millions of people all over the world did it all the time. So why was it such a big deal to Lottie? Maybe because she had wanted to save herself for the right man…maybe because she knew she was better than all this. Maybe because she wasn't experienced…maybe because she wanted to be in love the first time.

Lottie needed to go to bed. Her thoughts were all fuzzy and her head began to hurt. She would contemplate the matter of sex another night. Right now, she just needed to get to her room and forget all about Spot Conlon and what a mess tonight had been.

Just as she was about to unlock her door, another door behind her slammed closed and she turned around, jumping from the noise. Catalina "Spice" Bermudez stood there, all five foot eight of her, looking even more stunning than usual. Her long, blonde locks glistened in the moonlight and her big, blue eyes looked down at Lottie with disdain. She held a comb in her hair and began brushing her tresses, leaning against her door, glaring at Lottie for no apparent reason. Lottie just looked back at her blankly. From the minute Lottie had come to the Widow's Rose, Spice had just detested her. She seemed to hate Lottie, and Lottie had no idea why. And now that Lottie had filled in for Spice, Spice had seemed almost offended.

"Hi Lottie," she said in a dangerously calm voice. Lottie just fingered the key in her right hand, wishing Spice would just go away so she could go to sleep. Spice always found it a point to bother Lottie and it annoyed Lottie to no end. She preferred Spice just pretend she didn't exist—better on everyone.

"Um, hi Spice," Lottie said somewhat slowly. She wasn't going to cause trouble—she preferred to get along with everyone and resolved to be as polite as she could be to Spice. Spice looked Lottie over somewhat critically, and placed the brush she held in the pocket of her long robe. She reached behind her ear and pulled a cigarette out, lighting it with a match she pulled from underneath the doormat leading into her room. Taking a long drag, she blew smoke right in Lottie's direction. Lottie tried hard to stifle the cough that was rapidly climbing up her throat.

"Want a drag?" Spice asked, quirking an eyebrow. Lottie shook her head, wanting more than ever for Spice to just leave her alone. The icy stare Spice was looking at Lottie with made Lottie feel small and inferior.

"So," Spice continued, evidently ignoring how uncomfortable Lottie looked. "How did yer night go? I undahstand you'se was wit me boy Spot. You'se were good to him?"

Lottie began to wring her hands together again. She wasn't going to tell Spice what had happened—well, the fact that nothing had happened—she wasn't going to give Spice that much satisfaction. She didn't like Spice, but not for the same reason most girls hated Spice. Lottie wasn't envious of Spice's incredible and unusual good looks. She just wasn't a jealous person when it came to looks. She just couldn't stand how Spice hated and detested her so, and she didn't even know Lottie. That was what drove Lottie crazy—the fact that Spice didn't know Lottie and yet she hated her.

"It went fine," Lottie said shortly. She was growing tired and annoyed by Spice. Luckily, Spice seemed to be boring of Lottie anyway. She took one long drag on her cigarette and gave a cruel smirk to Lottie before disappearing down the hallway.

Lottie glared at her back, wishing she would just leave her alone. With one last sigh, Lottie quickly entered her small bedroom, trying her best to forget all about Spot Conlon and Spice Bermudez.

* * *

The bright rays from the afternoon sun caused Spot to squint as he made his way toward Manhattan to meet with Blaze and Jack. They had all decided on meeting in Manhattan since Manhattan had the least attacks occurring, and they all felt a bit safer than in Brooklyn or Queens. Spot was relieved they were all finally meeting, the sooner they figured out how to stop the attacks and beat Harlem and the Bronx, the better for everyone.

The previous night had been a difficult one for Spot. He'd slept barely a wink, constantly tossing and turning, unsure of why he couldn't fall asleep. Between worrying over the safety of his newsies and those newsies of Queens and Manhattan, and then the whole thing with that strange girl from The Widow's Rose, Spot felt more exhausted then he had ever felt. Spot remembered the previous nights events—or there lack of—and couldn't help but feel irritated and annoyed. Why couldn't Spice have just come over? That girl Lottie or whatever her name was had made his head hurt way too much for anyone's good. Forgetting about Lottie, Spot reached to his back pocket to put his cap on to find it wasn't there. Cursing, Spot figured this week couldn't get much worse.

The sun glaring down upon the back of his bronze neck, Spot stepped into shade of nearest alleyway and continued his journey in the slightly cooler area. He fingered the key around his neck he'd had ever since he could remember…from the past he'd long since put in the back of his mind. The key gave him security, a sense of knowing…whenever he was losing himself, whenever he needed a reminder of where he came from and who he was, Spot always had the key with him. It was his link to his past, a link to the future, to a hope, to a better life. He knew he wasn't going to be the Brooklyn Leader forever. Eventually, he'd have to renounce his title and move on. But for now, Brooklyn was what he was living for—his boys were his world, and without them Spot didn't know where he'd be. Of course, if they knew this, he'd probably be laughed out of New York. They didn't calm him the King of New York for nothing.

Just as Spot was about to turn out of the alley and reach the Lodging House, a gaggle of angry voices caused his ears to prick up and make him slow down. Heated yells could be heard just out of the alley, and it sounded like quite a few. Quickening his pace, Spot jogged out of the alley and made his way to the commotion. Upon exiting the dark alley, Spot came face to face with a group of five or six Harlem newsies and one younger Manhattan newsie Spot recognized but didn't know by name. The Harlem newsies were gathered around the small Manhattan kid, who was whimpering and desperately trying to defend himself. One burly Harlem newsie kicked the kid, sending him to his knees and giving a painful cry. Spot's blood began to boil as a sick laughter bubbled out of the dirty Harlem newsies's mouths.

"What the _fuck_ do you'se think you'se is doin'," Spot growled, standing up to his full height which was a decent five ten, glarind at the newsies, causing them to recoil only slightly.

"Well if it ain't dah fuckin' Brooklyn King 'imself," one of the Harlem newsies sneered. He was a shorter, thick guy with scraggly brown hair and quite a few rotten teeth. Spot recognized him from before when Brooklyn and Harlem were alliances and had poker nights a few times—Scrags, the boy's name was, probably coming from his scraggly mane. He was a foul thing, truly mean and bitter. "How ya doin' Spotty?"

Spot took a few steps toward the group, clutching his fists at his sides. "What do ya think yer doin' heah Scrags? Get the hell outta heah."

Scrags stuck his fists in his pockets, quirking a thick eyebrow at Spot. He ran a purple tongue over his mutilated teeth, the boys behind him smacking their fists, heavy thugs just waiting to pound anything in their way. Spot wasn't afraid—he was one hell of a fighter, and if push came to shove, Spot could snap his fingers and in seconds he'd have boys to back him up. But he didn't need it. He never needed it.

"We'se can walk wherevah we want Conlon," Scrags growled, stepping closer to Spot. Spot looked down at the rat of a kid with condescension and disgust. "What are ye doin' in Manhattan anyway? This ain't yer territory…this ain't got nothin' tah do wit dah rumored alliance you'se got wid Manhattan and Queens is it?"

Spot glared at Scrags. "That ain't none of yer damn business. Now get the fuck outta heah!"

Scrags just shook his head and turned to his boys. "Come on, let's leave befoah yer _highness_ heah gets his knickers in a twist." The newsies guffawed stupidly and trudged their way out of the alley, Spot watching them the whole time. Shaking his head, Spot made his way to the small newsie bent up on the ground, clutching his right arm where the Harlem kid evidently kicked him. A nice black eye was quickly forming on the boy's left eye.

"You'se okay kid?" Spot asked, helping him to his feet. "They didn't rough you up too bad, did they?"

The boy stood up and adjusted his cap, swallowing hard and looking up nervously at Spot. No doubt the kid was probably humiliated and most definitely intimidated, but Spot felt bad for him. He was in fact looking a little beat, and Spot shook his shoulder in a friendly state.

"I'm okay!" the kid squeaked. He had tears in his eyes but was trying pathetically to swallow them.

"What's yer name kid?" Spot asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Taps," the kid said, his voice small and unsteady. Spot nodded.

"Come on Taps. I'se headed fer the Lodgin' House anyway. I'll make sure you'se get there okay."

The kid grinned nervously and wrung his hands together. "Okay!" Spot just grinned, leading the kid safely to the confines of the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House.

"Damn kid what _happened_ to you'se!"

From the moment Spot and Taps entered the Lodging House, Jack and most of the newsies had approached them, worry evident on their faces. Jack took hold of Taps shoulders and tilted his face into the light streaming in from the lobby window, getting a better look at Taps' swelling eye. His lip was busted open, blood crusted on his upper lip. Jack grimaced.

"Dem scum bags from Hahlem was beatin' up on Taps," Spot told Jack, leaning against the Kloppman's counter and quirking an eyebrow. "I'se heard them givin' him a hard time on me way ovah heah."

Spot could see the fury in Jack's eyes, making the usual light hazel hue turn dark and stormy. Jack straightened up, keeping an eye on Taps. "Race, go get Taps cleaned up." Race nodded and took the small boy by the shoulders, leading him to the washroom. Jack looked back at Spot. "Blaze is waitin' upstairs."

Spot nodded and followed Jack through the throng of curious newsies, up the rickety old stairs and down the hall to a small spare room Kloppman usually kept for sick newsies. Blaze paced the room, and upon hearing the closing of the door and seeing Jack and Spot, stopped in his tracks and nodded. A tall, broad shouldered young man with shaggy black hair that usually fell into his grey eyes, Blaze was both a good friend of Jack and Spot and a hard leader. But the panic look in his eyes showed the pain and worry of the circumstances going on.

"Heya Spot," Blaze said, spit shaking with the Brooklyn leader. "How you'se doin?"

Spot shook his head. "I just found one of Jacky's boys gettin' beat on by a couple of Hahlem punks. Who the hell do dey t'ink they are? This has gotta stop!"

Blaze sat down, Spot and Jack following suit. "We gotta do somethin'," Jack said. "This can't go on. One of these days our boys is gonna seriously get hoit. Hahlem an' Bronx are both on the same side, between the both of 'em they could wipe us out at this rate."

Spot shook his head. "We'se can soak 'em! Me boys ain't scared, Brooklyn alone could beat their asses!"

Blaze ran a hand through his hair. "Spot, we'se know you'se could take both of 'em. But they's are dirty fightahs. Shoah, you'se could beat 'em if you'se was just fightin' skin on skin. But dem Hahlem and Bronx newsies are nasty—they'se ain't scahed to use weapons. They's got no…no…decency. No sense of what's right."

"We'se need othas," Jack said. He sat back in his chair, folding his arms. "We could try and get Midtown. They's is good fightahs. Or them fellas on the East Side. Somethin'."

"Do we really wanna bring in otha boroughs into this mess?" Blaze questioned, his eyes wide. "Maybe we should set up a meetin' with Harlem and the Bronx. Talk tah Shooter and Tricks. We'se don' even know why they's keep attackin' us!"

Spot shook his head, his eyes blazing. "The minute I get close enough to tawlk to dem scums, is the minute I'se bash their heads in."

Jack looked at Spot cautiously. He knew the danger of Spot's temper as well as anyone. "Spot, I'se think Blaze is right. Maybe we'se can woik out a compromise or somethin'."

Spot couldn't believe his ears. "Yer boys are gettin' beat everyday and you'se wanna go and make a _compromise?_ What the fuck is gonna be worth compromisin'? One of yer boys lives?"

Jack stood up. "Are ya sayin' I ain't capable of handlin' the safety of me boys?" There was a dangerous growl in his tone.

Spot also stood up. Blaze looked between the two friends, worry growing in the pit of his stomach. "I'se sayin' that maybe ya need tah remember the lives of all of Manhattan newsies is in yer hands!"

Blaze stood up just as Jack opened his mouth to reply back with a snap. They'd get no where if Jack and Spot continued to bite each other's heads off.

"Guys—we ain't gonna get anythin' accomplished if you'se keep fightin'! You'se actin like you'se is five years old!" Jack and Spot hesitated, then looked at Blaze. Blaze half expected them both to hook him in the face, but Jack nodded.

"You'se is right," he grumbled. He was acting foolish, letting his temper get in the way of more important matters. "Listen, we'se gotta do _somethin'. _Fer now, why don't we'se just tell our boys they's ain't allowed out aftah the evenin' edition is sold and they's got their dinner an' all. No roamin' around. And now one can go to anotha borough by themselves…they's need at least a group of three."

Spot nodded, rubbing his neck. "Yeah, okay. But I'se still say we soak them bastards."

Jack suppressed a grin. "We'se can't do anythin' like dat yet. I'll tawlk tah Midtown, see if they'se can help us out. Meanwhile, Blaze you'se send some of yer best birdies ovah tah Harlem and the Bronx, see if they can find anythin' out. Yer spies is good, they's tough boys, they's is smart, they won't get caught."

Blaze nodded. His borough was known for having the best spies, and he fully trusted his boys to be okay. "I'll send five or six tah be safe."

Jack nodded. "I'se station me boys all around heah, Brooklyn and Queens. We'se always need tah be near eachodda, in case them scabbers pull somethin'."

"I'll do the same Jacky-boy," Spot told him. "But if this shit doesn't stop, don't think I ain't gonna go kill Shootah and Tricks. They desoive it."

Jack clapped his hands together. "Blaze, I'se think we'll have anuddah meetin' in a few weeks. I'll send woid if anythin' changes."

The sun glared into the room, making all three men squint. The sky was uncharacteristically blue, contrasting greatly with the tension hanging thick in the room. There was a foreboding in all of their faces, a knowing look of dread and a glimmer of hope. "Let's hope somethin' does," Blaze muttered. "Let's hope."

Jack sighed. "I'se afraid that's all we'se can do…hope."


	3. Scars and Katie Rommely

**Author Note: Thanks to all my reviewers! I appreciate them so much. :):) **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing! Nothing conflabbit!

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After having successfully avoided Miss Velvadine and Lady for almost a full twenty four hours, Lottie felt her stomach drop as there was a pounding on her bedroom door. It was a little after twelve in the afternoon the following day, and Lottie had kept herself in her room, straightening up and attempting to make the closet-like room a little homier. Lottie looked at the door apprehensively, her stomach full of butterflies. She began going through all the possible excuses in her mind, thinking of anything that might have to do with Spot's lack of payment. Wringing her hands, Lottie made her way across the room and felt as if she might pass out. Her hand shook as she turned the knob slowly and felt her skin go cold as Miss Velvadine herself stood there, glaring down at Lottie with a look that could most definitely kill.

Miss Velvadine was an interesting woman. She had the kind of look that had once been beautiful, but after years and years of smoking, drinking, and an unhealthy amount of sex, her once flawless skin now showed creases and wrinkles, her once flowing hair now was natty and frayed, and her body was rail-thin, always adorning a corset to boost what saggy cleavage she had, a look truly repulsive and inappropriate. She stood there, a long cigarette hanging from her rouge lips, smoky black liner making her look fierce and brittle, her scraggly hair piled high on her bobbling head. Upon setting her glower on Lottie, Miss Velvadine took her cigarette from her mouth and blew the smoke square in Lottie's face, causing her eyes to tear.

"Do you need something?" Lottie asked, trying her best to act nonchalant but her voice only came out in a scratchy whisper. Miss Velvadine curled her lip back in a truly wicked way, making Lottie's look of innocence falter slightly.

"Lottie," Miss Velvadine said her voice deep and smooth. "Don't just stand there…where are your manners, girl? _Do_ invite me in."

Lottie stood aside and Miss Velvadine pushed passed her, her eyes glowering and her scent of smoke lingering in Lottie's nostrils. Turning around, Lottie watched Miss Velvadine's every move, trying her best to remain calm. The very presence of the sinister woman gave Lottie chills and a lump rise in her throat. She took several deep breaths, wringing her hands together like she did so many times.

"Can…can I help you Miss Velvadine?" Lottie asked again, trying the innocent act. Her large eyes were wide and anxious, trying desperately to hide the anguish and fear. What would she say? What _could_ she say? That she had denied her first client? That was a good amount of money she'd thrown away so very easily. An amount of money that wouldn't be forgiven so easily.

Miss Velvadine turned on Lottie, her anger quite evident. She'd abandoned the sly act, a fury burning so powerfully in her dull black eyes. Lottie recoiled slightly, the hairs on her neck standing straight up. She swallowed hard.

"Where is it girl? Where's the money?" Miss Velvadine began to search the room, throwing open drawers and ripping apart bed sheets, undoing all of Lottie's hard work that morning. Feeling the anger boil inside of her, Lottie bit her tongue.

"What…what are you talking about?" Lottie backed up from Miss Velvadine, who was advancing on her rapidly. The smell enough of Miss Velvadine made Lottie feel sick.

"The money!" Miss Velvadine's booming voice pierced Lottie's ears. "The _bloody _payment from last night! Spot is a generous donator for such a poor income, where's the fucking money? I don't have time for this! You should have given it to me as soon as you returned…don't think I'm not onto you, you're not some _princess_, Lottie. You don't _keep_ the pay! Hand it over!"

Lottie hesitated, unsure of what she was going to say and unsure of what Miss Velvadine would do exactly. What if she threw her out? Lottie had no where to go! At least at the Widow's Rose she had a roof over her head and a flimsy meal here or there. She wouldn't survive on the streets. Panic began to bubble inside of her.

"I—I," Lottie stammered, trying to recover herself. "Uh…Spot…I went last night, I did…he…he…erm…"

"He _what_?" Miss Velvadine came closer to Lottie, her eyes burning holes into Lottie's own. Miss Velvadine's cigarette was dangerously close to Lottie's bare forearm.

"He was tired," Lottie squeaked out, the first thing coming to mind. "He…told…he told me he had a bad…um…headache. His head was hurting him bad. I…I stayed a few minutes, but he was…really bad. He said he's sorry he didn't pay…sales…sales weren't so good. He…says…thanks anyways though."

Lottie bit her lip, looking up at the eerie woman peering down at her. Miss Velvadine didn't seem to buy it, but she couldn't exactly prove otherwise. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, taking a long drag on the cigarette.

"You know what happens to girls around here who don't bring home their pay Lottie?" It was more of a statement than a question, a warning. Lottie shook her head, looking down at her feet briefly before staring directly into Miss Velvadine's eyes.

"They work," Miss Velvadine growled. "Hard. They don't get meals, and I work them until their hands bleed and they're crying for their dead mothers. That's what happens to girls who don't bring home pay. I'm only going to say this once girl, so listen good."

Lottie's stare didn't falter, and it took all the courage she had to continue looking Miss Velvadine in the eye. Her throat was burning and that cigarette was too close to her own wrist.

"Don'tLet. It. Happen. _Again._ You're not to have meals for this week; you will find your own food." Miss Velvadine's voice was cold and hard, biting right through Lottie. "You are to clean up the dining room after breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You are to scrub the pots and pans, and sweep the living quarters of the Widow's Rose. I will work you until you know what _payment_ means. Payment, Miss Lottie Crew, payment around here is your ticket to living. No pay, no nothing. I'll work you until I feel you get the message. And from now on, you give your pay to _me, _the second you return."

Lottie nodded, feeling numb and oddly disoriented. She didn't comprehend the words coming out of the old bat's mouth.

"Spot Conlon is a regular client," Miss Velvadine growled, grabbing Lottie's wrist and smirking evilly at her. Her grip was tight, and Lottie feared she'd snap her wrist off. She winced in pain. "Spice is pre-occupied with another client for a few weeks, you will be her replacement. You will give Spot Conlon whatever he wants, and _don't_ let this happen again." Her grip was dangerously tight and Lottie bit her tongue hard to keep from crying out. Miss Velvadine raised Lottie's fist higher, quirking an eyebrow.

"Oh, and another thing. This should teach you to never mess with clients, eh?" The burning cigarette dangling from Miss Velvadine's free hand met with Lottie's sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist, causing the scream that had been crawling up Lottie's throat to pour out, piercing the afternoon like a thousand knives.

* * *

A salty tear stung the burn on Lottie's wrist as she hovered over the water basin, biting her lip and trying her best to not cry out in pain. The curtains were drawn on the window leading out to the fire escape, and the hot afternoon sun warmed Lottie's back. Her wrist was throbbing—the pain had yet to cease any. Her eyes were blurry and burned with tears she struggled to keep back. A hate so deep in passion burned within her, just dying to bubble out of her and unleash its dark power. But Lottie refused to give Miss Velvadine any satisfaction. She hadn't meant to scream, and she wished she hadn't—she didn't want to show any weakness she had. Lottie had to be strong. She knew she needed to be a survivor, there wasn't any other choice. She was a fighter. And she'd be damned if she didn't keep fighting.

Gently dabbing the cold rag to the cigarette burn on the inside of her right wrist, Lottie winced and bit her tongue hard, filling her mouth fill up with the metallic taste of blood. She looked away, out the window, into the blue sky wishing she could just escape from everything. She had never felt so trapped in all her life. She felt like there were chains locking her down, tormenting her, their prisoner, cutting deep into her soul, sucking the life out of everything. The fervor she had to get out of New York burned all the more fiercely.

Pumping the water from the spout over the basin, Lottie closed her eyes and let the coldness run over her burn. She was going to have that scar her whole life, a reminder of everything going on then, and no matter how hard she would try, she would never forget The Widow's Rose. It was permanent—part of her now, no matter how much the thought sickened her.

How had her life come to this? She'd lived at The Widow's Rose for barely a week, and already she was drowning. And yet only a year ago she had been living fine. She had had a roof over her head, hot meals to nourish her, a loving mother who protected and cared for her, and a father who worked hard for this family. And yet, in a blink of an eye everything was lost. Her father had been a liar all his life. One day, he just up and left Lottie and her mother with a woman by the name of Fleur Baconia, a French actress he'd been having an on-off affair with ever since his business trip to Paris years ago. Lottie had never seen her mother in more pain. While Lottie had barely known her father, Mrs. Crewe had loved him dearly. He was handsome and spirited, with charisma and sparkling blue eyes. But he'd been secretive and always had a wondering eye.

Lottie's mother, Isabel Marolli, was beautiful, which had first caught Mr. Crewe's eye. She had long, flowing dark locks and chocolate eyes. A true beauty who came to America from Italy when she was Lottie's age, and Lottie had always admired her mother. Mr. Crewe had first met Isabel three months after the Marolli family came to America and he'd fallen head over heels in love. He was two years her senior and the two married within two months of courting. Lottie had been born a year later, her mother seventeen and her father nineteen. They were young, but Mr. Crewe was from a well to-do family and had come from quite a fortune. Lottie had grown up with her mother's love strong yet gentle and her father's love not quite there.

When Mr. Crewe had deserted the Crewe women, Isabel was heart broken. While their marriage had been slowly deteriorating for years, she couldn't help but feel betrayed. Immediately Isabel and Lottie struggled for money. Lottie was taken out of schooling and the two soon found work cleaning a local school. They barely made their way but Isabel refused to move from their home—she wanted Lottie to grow up in a house she'd always feel at home. But then Isabel had fallen ill. Pneumonia. And everything just went downhill from there. Isabel died two months after she'd been diagnosed. And then Lottie was on her own. No family, no nothing. She refused to be put in an orphanage. Finding work at a dodgy cloth store, she'd sleep where she found suitable and managed to live that way for close to a year before Miss Velvadine had come along and snatched her up.

Lottie stopped feeling sorry for herself. Throwing pity parties wouldn't get her anywhere. What was done was done, what had happened had happened. There was absolutely nothing she could do about the past—she could only live for tomorrow, for a brighter day, the future. That hope she hung on to kept her alive. She was strong. She wouldn't break—if she accomplished nothing in this world, she wanted to at least survive it.

Bandaging her burn, Lottie bit her lip and gazed out the window, her long tendrils of dark curls laying about her shoulders and cascading down her back. She tried to forget about the pain in her wrist, but it still throbbed energetically. A soft breeze blew through the open window and Lottie closed her eyes, imagining she had wings and could fly away into the sun and just disappear forever. A burning sensation ached in her throat but she swallowed firmly. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't give the world that satisfaction. She wouldn't let the world know it was breaking her.

"What are you doing?"

Lottie's eyes flew open and she jumped, the hairs on her back standing up. Turning around, she saw a girl standing in the doorway of the washroom, one eyebrow raised. Lottie shivered, having thought no one was around. Usually around this time on a Sunday the Widow's Rose was dead, and only a select few had to occupy customers. The girls of the Widow's Rose took Sunday as their day to themselves, a day to go into the city and try and erase everything they left the moment they stepped into the sunlight. But there she was—a girl a bit older than Lottie herself, standing there, looking at Lottie curiously.

"Nothing," Lottie said, not quite sure what else to say. She looked at the girl who looked back. Lottie had never seen her before—having only been at the Widow's Rose a short time she had not had time to socialize. The girl was average height—taller than Lottie but average size. She had dirty blonde hair, the kind of hair that really didn't have a color. It was long and straggly, falling past her shoulders and down her back. She had large round brown eyes, and a scar just above her right eyebrow. She was a skinny thing, no curves and stood firm and lean. She had her arms full of clothing, which she was no doubt going to wash. Her eyes were smudged with black coal, which confused Lottie since it was Sunday and the girl obviously wasn't working.

"You had your eyes closed like you were sleeping," the girl said, moving past Lottie and crouching at the water basin, pumping water into it and placing her clothes beside the large tub.

Lottie watched the girl begin to do her laundry, and frowned. She touched her wrist gingerly, the bandage tight and causing it to throb even more forcefully.

"I was…just thinking," Lottie murmured, not really sure what to say at all. The girl looked over her shoulder and her dark eyes flicked to Lottie's bandaged wrist and she quirked an eyebrow.

"You're not the first to try it you know," the girl muttered. Lottie was utterly confused, but didn't say anything. "A cheap escape, right?" Lottie shook her head, and started to say she didn't understand when her eyes got big and she shook her head suddenly.

"Oh no…no…I wasn't…" she shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't try…no, that's not it." The girl nodded, and returned to her wash.

"Must have been Miss Velvadine then, right?" Lottie watched the girl curiously and nodded. She realized the girl couldn't see her nod since her back was turned toward the basin and Lottie cleared her throat.

"Yeah," Lottie said. "Her cigarette actually."

The girl nodded and stood up, wiping her hands on her dirty work dress. "Yeah, she does it to almost everyone." She pulled up the sleeve of her left arm and stuck out her wrist, causing Lottie to grimace. There, ugly as ever, was a nickel sized burn identical to Lottie's. "I refused a man. I was stupid and naïve, a few years back. What did you do?"

Lottie looked up at the girl. "Same…I think."

The girl laughed bitterly and numb, but it wasn't cruel or mocking. More of a sad kind of a laugh…almost pitying. "You better not refuse again…not unless you want another one of these. It's disgusting, isn't it?"

"Well, I don't suppose it's not pretty," Lottie said, looking at the girl's scar. The girl shook her head and smiled a little, her eyes holding the memory of a fire put out so long ago.

"Not the scar." Lottie's face burned. "Miss Velvadine. This place. It's horrible and sickening. The fact that this woman thinks she can do this to us." The girl shook her head and began gathering her wet clothes and placing them in a shabby basket. She shuddered. "It's so revolting."

"What is your name?" Lottie asked the girl. The blonde held her basket close to her and tilted her head at Lottie, a shadow of a smile on her thin and sallow face. She'd be pretty if she had a few decent meals and a bath.

"Katie," the girl said a bit timidly, as if she wasn't asked this question too much. "Katie Rommely. What's your name?"

Lottie tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "Lottie Crewe. I just started."

Katie nodded. She looked younger than she probably was with her hair clipped to the side in a small beret. She offered Lottie a small grin. "It's nice to meet you Lottie. I'd watch your back though…in fact, I'd watch all around you. Wouldn't want another nasty burn. And trust me, that witch of a woman gives them quite often." Katie grimaced.

"Was she always like this?" Lottie asked. Katie tilted her head thoughtfully.

"I've been here five years. Since I was thirteen." Lottie's heart broke at this information. "Miss Velvadine has always been a heartless, worthless piece of flesh which would better be off rotting. Always."

Lottie just looked at the girl, not sure of what to say. Katie sighed. "There's one thing you should know Lottie. Don't get mixed up in the wrong sorts of people here. Just don't. It's better to just stay to yourself—that way, you aren't vulnerable to anyone. That's what's got me through anyway."

Lottie was about to say something, when Katie turned and left. Lottie stood there, staring at the doorway, the sun beating down on her back and a breeze playing with her hair from the open window.

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**Many apologies for lack of Spot. Next chapter:):) Reviews are always appreciated. Thanks for reading! **

**Love & Strawberries, The Good Girl.**


	4. Strange Smiles Please Leave My Mind

**Ecch. Sorry for lack of update. I realize it's been over a month...lazy on my party, really. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I hope I'm not going too slow with this...I'm just having trouble figuring out exactly where I want it all to go. Feedback is gracious and helps so, _so _much. I'll try to update more frequently, and next chapter there is definitley going to be Lottie/Spot interaction. I want to get things moving along... :):) Thanks for all the reviews! They were most kind...next chapter I'll give shout outs, but I'm in a bit of a rush and I want to post this ASAP. **

**Disclaimer: **Nothin', nothin', nothin'. Lottie though...and the plot...that's about it... :):)

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The sun beat down on Spot's back as he sold his last morning pape. His fingers were swelled and blistered, covered in black ink, and a trickle of sweat was making its way down the back of his neck. He couldn't find his cap and he felt the consequences of its absence—he was no doubt getting sunburn on his face, his cheeks burning painfully. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows as he made his way down the crowded Brooklyn Street, toward Biddy's Diner where the Brooklyn newsies usually met for lunch. Spot pushed his messy locks out of his eyes and side-stepped a vender selling apples on the corner of fifty-first. The day was bustling and busy, a typical late spring afternoon—a whisper of summer was in the air and the excitement of New York City was alive and burning.

Though the street was crowded and noisy, full of plenty of witnesses, Spot kept his eyes alert and his ears pricked for any suspicious noises. He was aware of his surroundings at all times, and his senses were sharp. Since the attacks started on the newsies of Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Queens, everyone was tense and vigilant. Spot didn't know how much longer he could take it before he seriously snapped—if any one of his newsies were jumped, he knew he'd be too far gone, he knew his temper would boil so fierce…and if that happened, Shooter and Tricks, the leaders of the Bronx and Harlem, had better watch their backs.

After a few more minutes of pushing his way through the thick crowd of venders, passerby, and the occasional shady looking bum on the corner which was all too familiar on a Brooklyn street, Spot reached Biddy's and made his way through the heavy glass door, a little bell tinkling as his presence was made known. The small diner was packed full of Brooklyn newsies…the boys of Brooklyn took over the place when their papes were all sold—it was like an unwritten law…the newsies always got the diner mid-afternoon. It was their haven, a place to get away besides the Lodging House—have a hot meal, play a few rounds of poker, socialize, or gossip abbout their day. But today it was a place for Spot to sit alone and think about everything that was going on. It was a place for him to try and think of a plan, _anything_, to help his newsies and those of Queens and Manhattan. All the fighting needed to stop…and they didn't even know _why_ Harlem and the Bronx were attacking them so. Newsie life could be damn fucked up sometimes.

Spot's head began to pound and he felt the beginnings of a migraine coming on. He made his way to a booth in the center of the diner, saying hi to his fellow newsies on his way, taking a seat on his lonesome. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, desperately trying to will it away. He'd been getting frequent migraines for a few months now, but he could no sooner afford a doctor than go dancing around stark naked without getting laughed out of the city. After a few moments of waiting, he gave his order to a waiter and leaned back against his seat, eyes closed and back creaking. The sun poured in from the large front window, and it warmed his face, making him feel lazy and content. He started to doze off when the little bell tinkled above the door sending him jerking straight. He groaned…just as he was about to fall into a little nap too. He opened one eye in curiosity to whoever had interrupted his relaxed state of mind, and his eyes went slightly wide.

A girl had entered the diner, and upon seeing her face Spot's mind immediately began turning—her face was familiar, he knew her from somewhere and yet he couldn't quite place where. Another fling perhaps? The possibility was great, but for some reason Spot couldn't remember bedding this girl—well, he couldn't remember a _lot_ of the girls he bedded—but he had definitely seen this one before. And then it dawned on him—it was the girl from the other night, the new hooker who'd annoyed him when she obviously had been inexperienced. He couldn't remember her name—Lauren or Lyddie or something… Spot grimaced as he recalled the night's events—what the hell was the girl doing in the diner? Didn't she know that newsies got the diner around this time? He'd never seen her around before—he didn't even think she'd ever lived in Brooklyn.

By the look on the girl's face, it looked like she had never been in the diner before. Spot hadn't recognized her right away, for her hair was loose and laying in long, thick curls about her, and her eyes were free from the dark, smudged coal lining. Instead of the provocative red dress she had sported in Spot's company, she now wore a simple, if anything rather _ratty_, work dress, the sleeves rolled up at her arms. She looked much younger without any make up on and quite vulnerable—especially the way her eyes were widened in fright at the sight of thirty something newsboys staring at her.

Spot continued to watch the girl, unsure if he should go up to her or not. He didn't know why he even felt the need to approach her—he didn't even know her, and he certainly had no desire to know her. But he felt kind of bad just watching her squirm, looking incredibly uncomfortable. Before he could decide on what exactly to do, the girl seemed to have found some courage and made her way to the front counter, her eyes set directly in front of her, as if trying hard to ignore the stares and comments around her.

From where he was seated, Spot had a clear view of her back as she stood at the counter, tightly gripping her dress and making her order. When she was finished, she stood there uncertainly, taking another look around the place. By now the newsboys had shrugged her off, not really caring anymore. The diner took up its once lively chatter again, and the girl was left to wait for her food.

Spot's food finally came, but he didn't touch it. Instead, he found himself watching the girl again. He felt stupid and foolish—why was he bothering to look at her? She'd made a fool of him a few days ago and here he was watching her like some kind of stalker. She wasn't even that cute, Spot reasoned. At least if she was good-looking, he'd have an excuse to be watching so. She was kind of plain—the kind of girl most would just look over and never second glance.

Before he could ponder anything more about the strange girl, she'd grabbed her food and made her way towards the door. Just as she was about to leave, her eyes locked with Spot's. He felt himself stiffen and just kind of look dumbly at her. The girl's eyes widened slightly, letting Spot know she knew exactly who he was. She didn't wave energetically like most girls would have done, she didn't flounce over to him, and she didn't even stop walking. She just gave him a questioning look, as if to say _'I know you recognize me'_. Then, she smiled at him…a small smile, her eyes kind and gentle, a smile he'd never really received from a girl—a reserved smile, polite yet friendly. He didn't return the gesture…just kept looking at her as she walked passed him and out the door, never looking back or anything.

Spot stared at the door for a few seconds before snapping out of it and rubbing his temples. Blaming his inability to function properly on his migraine, he settled into his sandwich and forgot all about the girl who'd smiled at him but kept on walking.

* * *

"Spotty Conlon, I ain't ever seen ya's dis quiet! In fact, you'se never keep ya damn trap _shut._"

Spot looked up from his seat on the dock, the bright sun glaring down upon him. Jack Kelly stood before him; sweat glistening on his bronze skin; hand over his eyes, looking down at his best friend. Spot smirked, standing up and shrugging. The two spit shook and Spot sighed, leaning against a large dock and looking out over the vast Brooklyn River, the waters glistening blue from the bright sun.

"Heya Jacky-boy," Spot greeted, turning his face back to his friend. Jack looked tired and spent, probably from the long trek to Brooklyn in the hot weather. Spot had finished his lunch at the diner earlier and was just about to go pick up the evening edition to sell, when his routine was halted by the presence of the Manhattan leader. It wasn't an uncommon thing—Jack and Spot were just as comfortable in each other's boroughs as their own, and plenty of times Jack Kelly would drop by, sell a few papes with Spot, talk politics, either spend the night or head back to Manhattan—either way, Spot knew why Jack had come. To try and figure out exactly what they were going to do with their current predicament with Harlem and the Bronx…it was a subject Spot quickly tired of, but one of great importance.

"Ya look so out of it," Jack commented, wiping at his brow which glistened with perspiration. Spot looked at his best friend and studied him, wondering if he should tell Jack about the girl the other night or not. More than likely Jack would understand—Spot knew Jack wouldn't laugh or anything like that, but he still felt kind of embarrassed about the whole situation—especially since he had no real reason as to why the girl was bothering him so. Usually he'd just forget about her, never think twice…and he had, except she just _had_ to come to the diner today and jog his memory. _Argghh_, Spot thought angrily. He ran his hands through his hair and sighed deeply. He thought way too much.

"I don't feel so hot," Spot told his friend, still debating on whether or not to indulge into the story of the strange hooker. "Kinda have a headache."

Jack looked at Spot, quirking an eyebrow. Spot cursed his friend right then…Jack always knew when something was bothering someone. It was one of the many traits that made him a great friend and a superb leader. It was a trait Spot lacked, a trait that only so many were blessed with. Personally, Spot didn't mind lacking the ability to tell if someone was troubled—in fact, his life was easier that way. Don't ask, they won't tell. Simple. Sure, it may have been a bit cold and bitter of him, but Spot had his own problems to worry about—he didn't need to be bombarded with other people's problems as well. Of course, Jack was a different story. He went out of his way to make sure those around him were happy, while his own problems stirred in the storm that was inside of him. Occasionally Jack would open up to Spot, or Race, or someone close to him, but he mostly liked his problems to himself.

"You shoah?" Jack asked, his brow furrowing. "Ya don't look like it's just a headache." Spot winced inwardly, wishing Jack would just leave him to his shitty self.

"I guess it's all this shit that's going on," Spot half-lied. Sure, a lot of it was with the boroughs fighting, but more of it was personal. He just felt so drained…so empty. And he had no idea why. He wondered briefly if he was falling into a minute depression. "Ya know, wid da boroughs an' everythin'."

At the mention of the boroughs, Jack's eyes lit up. A dawning expression took over his features, and his eyebrows rose high. "Oh yeah!" Jack said excitedly. "I forgot—the reason I came heah was ta tell ya that one of Blaze's boidies came back wid a shitload of information!"

Spot snapped his head up, suddenly extremely interested in what Jack had to say. "_What_? What dey say!"

Jack began to untie his red bandana, the heat almost unbearably hot. "I know, right. Crazy. Well Blaze came tah me dis aftahnoon all troubled an' whatnot. Heah, the boidie Blaze sent over got friendly with Tricks' right hand man—apparently they ain't too cahful of who dey spill information wid…anyway, Blaze's boidie pretended to be out of it, not knowin' what was goin' on…an' the kid told him pretty much all we needed tah know…"

"Well, what was it!" Spot demanded impatiently. Jack waved his hand in front of him.

"I'se gettin' there, I'se gettin' there," Jack said. "Well, heah Tricks an' Shootah want part of Queens' land…see, dere's dis unknown territory, supposedly Harlem and the Bronx want it for their own, like a joint borough. But, Blaze knows for a fact dat the territory belongs to Queens, it always has, an' they use it for like special meetin's an' stuff, no one evah knew about it befoah but Queens, and somehow Tricks an' Shootah found it. The place is kinda like a headquarters for Queens when their Lodgin' House ain't secret enough."

Spot shook his head, confused. "But dat don't explain why _we_ is gettin' attacked."

Jack sighed. "I ain't finished yet. Ya see, Tricks an' Shootah are tryin' to wear us all down…they'se is tryin' to get us all weak an' shit, break us down, cause they plan to attack, an' when they's do we'se won't be able tah fight back as bad, and they can get the territory easily."

Spot looked hard out to the Brooklyn River, his mind whirling and spinning. He couldn't believe what he was hearing…he had once considered Tricks and Shooter close friends…politics could sure mess someone up. It was disgusting how they could turn on one another so easily.

"An' Tricks' right hand man told Blaze's boidie all dis?" Spot asked disbelievingly. "Dat seems a little unlikely."

Jack shrugged. "Yeah, dat's da only t'ing dat don't fit…but Blaze's boidies is damn good…they'se can pretty much trick anyone into spillin' out anythin'…"

Spot sighed, trying to digest all that Jack had just poured into him. He didn't know why this whole war was taking such an exhausting toll on him…well, he knew why it bothered him—it was his boy's safety that was at stake. From the moment he had become leader of the Brooklyn newsies, he knew all the responsibility that was entrusted with him. Though he'd rather diet than admit it to anyone, sometimes it really was a bit much. Sometimes that hard exterior Spot put on every second, sometimes it was painful to keep up. But Spot was a fighter, strong, and he knew he'd make sure his boys came out of this alive if it was the last thing he did.

"What's botherin' you Spot?"

Spot flicked his eyes up to Jack, trying to read into his question. Really, how could Jack sense that someone was hurting? Especially Spot, who did so well to hide it? _How _could he just know? Spot was slightly amazed at his friends 'sixth sense.'

"I told ya already," Spot grumbled, having a feeling he'd end up telling Jack anyway, but rather to drag out the process in an attempt to gather his jumbled and swirling thoughts.

Jack quirked an eyebrow, biting on a hang nail that looked quite painful. "Don't play dumb wid me. I ain't stupid ya know. What the hell is makin' you look all bothered an' shit?"

Spot bit his lip, finally deciding the hell with it. Why not tell Jack about the hooker from the other night? Jack wouldn't laugh, Jack would probably find it interesting and want to know more about this girl. Spot knew Jack wouldn't think Spot was foolish, and for that Spot was glad to have Jack to talk to.

"Dammit Kelly," Spot growled. "I swear, one of these days I'se is gonna figah out how ya can tell when somethin' is botherin' someone."

Jack smirked and shrugged. "Just one of my many gifts."

"Yeah whatevah," Spot chuckled. "I dunno. The otha night, right, I was waitin' foah Spice to get here."

Jack whistled. "Spice? That blonde beauty? Damn Conlon, you shoah know how tah pick 'em. From the Widow's Rose right?"

Spot nodded, ignoring Jack's comment about Spice. "Yeah, her, well I was waitin' foah her in me room, and instead of Spice like I was expectin' Miss Velvadine sends me this new broad. She was real young, like sixteen or somethin'. I forget 'er name…Lyddie or Lanie or somethin'…Well, it wouldn't have been a big deal, ya know, if this girl hadn't been so…I dunno, weird?"

Jack frowned. "Whaddya mean 'weird'? She wasn't some psycho witch girl was she?"

Spot laughed at his friend's absurdity. "Er, no, not that weird. Just real noivous an' shit. Like all chattery. She wouldn't even do nothin' wid me! She fuckin' was like…afraid of my touch or somethin'. Can ya believe dat?"

Jack shook his head, his eyes widening. "A goil refuse Spotty Conlon's touch? Damn, I just saw a pig fly."

Spot rolled his eyes, slightly regretting telling Jack. "I'm bein' serious heah. Have ya evah hoid of an inexperienced hookah? I mean, she was nice an' all…and then I saw her today too. And she just, looked at me and gave me this smile and just kept on walkin'. Fuckin' weird."

Jack stood there, a pondering look on his face. He was silent, and Spot looked at to the river, watching the current swirl below them. The sun was heading west, the day growing later and later.

"Ya think Miss Velvadine'll send 'er again?" Jack finally asked. Spot shrugged.

"I hope not," he mumbled. A gaggle of newsies caught his eye as they made their way to pick up their evening papers. "We bettah go buy the evenin' edition. S'gettin' late."

Jack obliged, and the pair made their way off. Spot followed his friend, trying desperately to rid his mind of that damn hooker and her strange smile earlier in the day. Why, why, _why _wouldn't she just leave his mind?


	5. Shutting Down, Becoming Numb

**Hello all! This update is relatively faster than my other ones. Yay! I hope you like it. And I hope it isn't going too slow...I just don't want it to seem corny and fake...I want it to be as real as possible...Hmmm...so, review and let me know what you think of this updation. :):)**

**Disclaimer: **Nope, nothing...sigh.

**Thanks for all the reviews! YAY! They are AwEsOmE. I think I'll do shout outs next time...yays.**

* * *

A hard knock on the old decaying door caused Lottie to jump away from her mirror in which she was currently studying herself, making her heart race and her stomach drop. She was a classic mess. Outside, she looked the part of the cliché hooker she was supposed to play; long dark hair, black coal eyes, rouge glossy lips, her dress tight and fitting, black this time with blood red lace. But inside she was terrified. Terrified because she knew tonight was the night—she couldn't mess around anymore…she couldn't avoid what she came to do. Tonight she was ordered to go to Spot Conlon's room for the second time, but this time she needed money. If she didn't get her money, she wasn't going to last much longer. In order to get her money, Lottie knew what she had to do…and that absolutely horrified her.

How had she gotten in this mess? A question she had been asking herself an awful lot lately. The door rattled when the person knocked again. Lottie cringed and tentatively made her way over to the door, opening it reluctantly. She was surprised to see Miss Velvadine nowhere—instead she came eye to eye with Katie Rommely, the girl she'd met the previous morning. Katie was dressed the part as well…her long, dirty blonde hair was pulled away from her face in a long ponytail, her dress tight as well, her eyes lined as black as ever, painted up just the way the girls of the Widow's Rose were supposed to be. Her eyes were sad as she regarded Lottie, but she offered her a small smile.

"Hey," she said.

Lottie stepped aside, letting the girl in and closing the door gently behind her. Before she shut it, she glanced down the hall, relieved to see Miss Velvadine nowhere. Lottie turned to Katie, slightly surprised the girl had come. "Hi," she said, slowly returning to her dresser. She avoided her reflection, and instead played with the hairbrush in her hands.

"I see you're working tonight," Katie commented, taking a seat on the edge of Lottie's bed. "Where's she sending you now?"

Lottie sighed, remembering her destination and grimacing. "Spot Conlon's place. It's my second time there…well, the only place I've been actually…"

Katie's eyes widened. "She's sending you to _Spot Conlon's?_"

Lottie nodded, feeling uncomfortable and not liking Katie's tone. Katie just looked at her, slightly dumbfounded.

"Damn…Spice prolly wants tah kill ya," she commented. "That girl is practically obsessed with Spot…not to mention just about every other girl in New York…why in the hell would Miss Velvadine send _you_ there? No offense, or anything…it's just…I mean, you've never done this before…"

Lottie shrugged, shaking her head. "I have no idea. I…last time I made a complete fool of myself! I feel like an idiot going back…he's expecting someone much, _much_ more experienced."

Katie just shrugged, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "The best thing I can tell you is to just disconnect yaself. Don't think about it—don't get attached, don't feel. Your mind, your heart, they have to be completely somewhere else. Just…be numb to it all."

Lottie studied her hands, not sure if she could do what Katie said. It sounded so cold, and she felt foolish and sheltered. How could she make herself numb to something that was supposed to be a beautiful thing, it was _supposed _to be an act of love…not an occupation. She felt so dirty all the time and she hated that.

Katie sighed, seeing the frightened look in Lottie's eyes. She stood up and gently placed a hand on Lottie's shoulder. Lottie looked up to the older girl. Here was a girl that had been doing it for so long, and yet she still had kindness in her heart. What turned some people to stone, while others still managed to have a bit of humanity left in them?

"Why'd you come here?" Katie asked, raising an eyebrow curiously. "You're just a kid…and you'se obviously got an education, and you'se sure as hell ain't got no experience…what are ya doin' workin' in a whorehouse?"

Lottie hesitated, not sure if she could trust this girl and open up to her. The girl may have been painted up, looking the perfect part of a cheap whore, but her eyes were large and…still full of life, it seemed. They weren't dead like Miss Velvadine's eyes, or Lady's, or Spice for that matter. They were kind, and Lottie figured she had nothing to lose. She wanted a friend; she hated having to deal with everything on her own. Sometimes it was hard suffering without anyone by your side, and even if the girl was nothing more than an acquaintance, it was nice just talking to somebody.

"My mom past away," Lottie said simply. "It was just me and her for the longest time, my father left almost two years ago. It was hard having her sick all the time and I went to school, and there were the bills and my tuition. It was hard…eventually she died, and I just…was on my own I guess. I worked here and there, and Miss Velvadine found me working at a clothing store where I sewed and stuff like that. She offered me a job here sewing dresses for the girls…and one thing led to another, and I dunno. I need the money, I know that."

Katie shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry about your mother. I never knew mine. I wish I had though…were you and your mother close?"

Lottie smiled faintly at the memory of her mother, and wished she had something to remember her by. She used to have a locket her mother gave her a long time ago, but she'd lost it over the years. She'd do anything to find that locket, to have something of her mother with her. She didn't even have a photograph. She had no idea where they were.

"Yes," Lottie said quietly. "She was very loving. And so beautiful. She was Italian, straight from Italy. She was soft spoken and kind, but very stubborn. She was a hard worker. And she could play the piano better than anyone I'd ever heard."

Katie smiled. "She sounds lovely." She sighed, her smile flickering. "What I wouldn't do to meet my mother."

Lottie placed her brush down on her bureau and leaned against the drawers. "How…how did you end up here?"

"Eh, your basic orphan story I guess," Katie said unemotionally. "Never knew my mother, never knew my father. I have an older sister somewhere; we both just kind of lived on the streets. One day she left to get us some food and never came back. Anwyays, Miss Velvadine found me too one day wondering about and just offered me the job. I guess it's because of the money I stay with it…I'm savin' up…as soon as I get enough to buy a train ticket, I'm out of here and this godforsaken city."

"Yeah, me too," Lottie said softly. "I just want to earn money for college, I want to be a writer or something…as long as it's as far away from this city as possible. Kind of pathetic I have to resort to this I guess."

"Yeah." There was a beat of silence as the two just got lost in their own thoughts of everything about them, and wondering just if they were able to get out of New York City one day and leave behind the lives that no doubt were going to haunt them for years to come. Suddenly Katie stood up, remembering her reason for coming in the first place.

"I almost forgot!" She exclaimed, reaching behind her and grabbing a bottle and bandage from Lottie's bed where she had placed the articles. Lottie hadn't even noticed Katie had anything when she first came. "I brought this for your burn—it'll help, trust me. Cold water doesn't do the trick—this will help, it makes the scar fainter and makes it feel cool."

Lottie eyed the bottle. "Where'd you get it?"

Katie smirked. "Trust me, after years and years of Miss Velvadine, I've learned a thing or two to mend burns and scars, you know, all that good stuff that comes with living here."

Lottie grimaced. "Here, hold out your wrist," Katie instructed. Lottie did as told, curling her lip back in disgust at the repulsive scar on her inner wrist. Katie unscrewed the bottle top, a light, gooey liquid pouring out onto her fingertips. She gently rubbed her fingers along Lottie's tender burn, and instantly the ointment made Lottie's wrist feel cool and slightly tickle. Katie covered the entire burn, and placed the bottle behind her, turning back to bandage Lottie's wrist. When she finished, Lottie examined her work and grinned.

"Nicely done," she commented. She glanced at the clock on her bedroom wall and nearly choked from shock. "Oh no…I've got to go, Spot's expecting a hooker in twenty minutes…thanks," she added, holding up her wrist.

Katie gathered her materials and nodded soundly. "Sure. Good luck tonight—remember what I told you. I hope everything goes okay. Just…don't be afraid. You can never be afraid."

Lottie nodded, wishing she could stay here instead and talk with Katie some more. She didn't want to do what she was going to do. Katie could read this and sighed softly.

"It gets…easier," she said hastily. "You…kind of get used to it. Just think of the money and getting out of here—the sooner you just do it, the sooner you get the money and the sooner you can just, get out."

Lottie nodded. "I know."

Katie offered a friendly smile. "Well, I'm off. My client's all the way over in Queens…quite a hike. Hey Lottie, come by my room anytime, if you ever need anything. I'm only a few doors down—room twenty-four."

Lottie smiled gratefully. "Thank you Katie. I guess I'll be seeing you." With one last good bye, Lottie watched Katie ago and then sighed to herself. _This is it_. She thought bitterly. She had no choice. It was time to stop being afraid…it was time to become detached, become numb to it all.

* * *

Spot was getting antsy. And that was saying something, because Spot Conlon never got 'antsy.' He was always sure of everything; he always had confidence in everything he did. But lately, he'd been faltering and he didn't quite know why. But all he knew was that right now he was getting antsy, and this time he _did_ know why. He was expecting someone. Someone from the Widow's Rose. And what bugged him was that he wasn't sure exactly _who _it was going to be. He prayed and prayed that it was Spice, that Spice was going to be visiting him again as frequently as she had before and whatever it was she was doing to keep her from him was over. And yet in the back of his mind he knew there was a possibility it wasn't going to be Spice and it'd be that other girl and whenever he thought of this 'other girl', it made him feel weird and all he could remember was that smile she'd given him in Tibby's the other day, and he felt unsure. Almost, apprehensive.

He didn't want a repeat of their first meeting if it did turn out it was her again. He wanted a woman's touch, not a woman's conversation. If he wanted to have a conversation, he had others for that. He wanted to just forget all of his problems, forget about everything for just a little while. When he was with a woman, it was almost like an escape for him. While he didn't necessarily care for the woman and the only thing he felt towards her was in his pants and not in his chest, he just forgot about everything around him. It wasn't making love—when he was with a hooker, a girl; it was pure, hard, cold sex. Not unpleasant—he always pleased his women, thus he was the most popular bachelor in all of New York and he earned himself the title of an absolute womanizer, it was just not really warm and soft. He didn't love the women he slept with. And he never told them he did. That was one thing—he respected women, he never told a girl he loved her to get her in bed. While he didn't always treat them great—they always felt slightly used and just another trophy with him—he would never hurt a woman physically. Some would call his doings an 'obsession.' He didn't care. Spot knew what everyone thought of him—they thought he was nothing but a cold, ruthless, womanizing, bitter leader. But he didn't care. The opinions of everyone didn't mean shit to him. So what if most of those things were true? Spot couldn't fucking care less. And that was just it; he didn't _care. _He never _cared._

But now he was antsy. He sat on his bed, smoking the last of the cigarettes he had, trying to figure out what would happen if the hooker turned out to be the girl from before—would she resist Spot yet again and make his night worthless? Or would she comply with Spot, and satisfy him? He wasn't really sure which he'd rather she do—resist or comply. He didn't really want to be bothered with her, but that didn't mean he wouldn't mind having his way with her. Spot just hoped Spice would come—she was the best damn fuck he'd ever had, and he sorely missed that.

A knock sounded on his door and he jumped, taken aback. He was so into his thoughts he hadn't checked the time and with a jolting lurch in his stomach he realized the hooker was here—whether it was Spice or not, he had no idea and he wanted to eagerly find out. Crossing his bedroom, he put out the stub of his cigarette and took one last breath before opening the door, regarding his visitor.

His first reaction upon seeing who had knocked on his door was disappointment. Disappointment because the girl wasn't Spice, disappointment because he feared it would indeed be a repeat of the previous night. Disappointment because the girl was indeed the same prostitute from before, the same hooker he'd seen in Tibby's the same damn hooker that annoyed the hell out of him by being so nervous and inexperienced at their first encounter. Spot's second reaction, however, was different. His eyes flicked over the girl, and he realized she looked different than she had at the diner. She was fully done up, in a fitting and seductive black dress, her long dark hair loose and parted so that some covered part of her right eye mysteriously. She looked like she had the first time he'd seen her. While she was wearing a lot of makeup, she wasn't as bad as he thought and he really hoped she wouldn't talk all night. Spot also realized he wasn't as annoyed as he thought he'd be if she showed up at his room again. He was surprised at not being totally annoyed. Confused by everything that was going through his mind; he didn't say anything and just looked at her, not realizing how long he'd been looking.

The girl cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows, obviously waiting to be invited inside. He stepped aside immediately and saw that while she still looked nervous and uncomfortable, she, too, obviously didn't want a repeat of the first night. She seemed to be determined as she walked straight into his bedroom and faced him. He realized that this _was _her job, and she'd probably gotten in trouble for not bringing any money back before. Spot realized she didn't have a choice anymore, and she knew what she had to do and was willing to do it. He wasn't sure whether was happy about that or not, and that made him all the more confused.

He shut the door and turned to her, unsure of really what to say. He didn't have uch time to think of anything to say because the girl—he really wished he remembered her name—was walking toward him and in seconds she had pressed her body close to his. He looked down at her, his eyebrow quirked in surprise. Spot saw that she looked a bit uncomfortable and nervous, but she wasn't stopping_. She must really need that money_, Spot thought in the back of his mind. He shrugged off his thoughts and put his hands around her waist, waiting to see if she'd throw him off. She didn't. Instead, she put her hands—albeit hesitating for a split second and slightly shaky—on his chest and stood on her tiptoes, pressing her mouth against his. He tried to hide his surprise as she kissed him softly. It definitely wasn't the kiss of a prostitute—hard nd rough. No, her kiss was soft and innocent, the way a kiss probably should be. She wasn't aggressive, probably because she'd never really done it before Spot realized. He almost found himself enjoying her soft lips before he realized what she was doing. Something just wasn't right. He felt…almost, bad. He tried to fight off his conscious as he deepened the kiss, holding her tight. She slowly crept her arms around his neck, and this time she actually kissed him back. And yet, Spot just didn't feel right.

Not that he didn't mind kissing her. Given she seemed a little nervous and fumbled slightly; but she really did have such soft lips. Spot was so used to the girls he kissed being eager and rowdy, having rough lips with gallons and gallons of rouge pasted on them. It was different kissing her—she was tentative and shy. Spot knew she was new and she acted it, but she really was trying. He could tell she was trying so hard to not push him off; she was trying to keep going. He felt her stiffen, and just as she was about to push his hands off, she must have realized what she was doing and she just stayed in place, kissing him. They broke apart for need of air, and she looked at him, knowing what she had to do.

Spot really felt bad, and he hated that. He watched her small hands make their way to the first button of his shirt and she began to unbutton the flannel material, biting her lip and trying to kip her hands from shaking. She got down to his last button and pushed his shirt off. She took a breath, and Spot noticed she wouldn't meet his eyes. He almost wished she'd start talking and rambling like she had. He hated how she was so uncomfortable and obviously nervous—he liked his girls ready and willing and obviously experienced.

She kissed him again, her hands on his chest. At first when she placed her hands on his chest she recoiled slightly, surprised at the feeling of his bare skin. But she placed her hands back on him, and he vaguely wondered if all she was thinking about was the money and if that was what kept her going. She began to push him gently, causing him to back up and stop only when he felt the back of his legs hit his bed. She broke away and pushed him down, causing him to sit on the edge of his bed and she stood in front of him. Spot looked at her, wondering what she was going to do.

She hesitated, and for a moment he fully expected her to turn around and leave right then. But to his surprise she took his hand and gently guided it around her and placed it on the small of her back, where the buttons of her dress began. Spot tried to hide his surprise, and he turned her around gently. He didn't know why exactly he was being gentle—he never really was before. But in this case he felt he almost had to be gentle, or he'd scare her off or something. She stood in front of him, back toward him, and he began unbuttoning her dress. He was quick and swift—after years of practice, of course. When he reached the last button, he pushed the sides of her dress off and she let the dress fall to her ankles. She turned to face him, dressed only in her corset and knickers. He wanted to just go ahead now with it—he leaned his head down to kiss her and she let him. For about three seconds. Just as his hands were making their way to the strings of her corset to undo the deadly thing, she took a sharp intake of breath and pulled away. Her eyes were large and full of regret. And yet there was sadness and she looked like she wasn't sure if she should continue or not.

"I—I…I can't do this," she stammered, looking down shamefully. "I'm sorry…I—I can't."

Spot stood up, unsure of what to say. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He just watched her, standing there, looking ashamed and her face steadily flushing. She looked up and swallowed.

"I'm really sorry Spot," she said, just above a whisper. "I—I just can't…I'm really trying, I thought I could do it I swear I did…I tried taking Katie's advice! I tried being numb, but it wasn't working, all I kept thinking about was that this isn't how I wanted it to be, this wasn't right, I know I need the money but I don't know, I just couldn't do it I—"

Spot interrupted her ramble, which was not making any sense to his ears. "Whoah. Take a breath goil. Calm down." She looked up at him and shook her head, burying her face in her hands. Spot didn't know what to do—this was extremely awkward. He just stood there, watching the girl crumble.

She lowered her hands, peering up at Spot. "This isn't how I wanted it to be, I'm sorry."

Spot raised an eyebrow. "Wanted what tah be?"

The girl bit her lip, looking embarrassed. "Well…you know…my…oh never mind, it'll just sound childish."

Spot rolled his eyes inwardly, wanting to tell the girl she had long past childish. He was irritated that she'd suddenly stopped, but for some reason her rambling seemed to bring him back to his senses. He took a seat on his bed, studying her. What the hell. Why not talk to her? He could get rid of her right now; he could get another hooker who'd satisfy him. But she looked so embarrassed and she really needed the money that much was evident. He didn't know why he kept talking to her, but something inside just sparked his curiosity.

"I'se sure it won't sound childish," he told her, not really knowing why he was interested. The girl grimaced at him, biting her lip. He racked his brain for her name—he knew it started with an "L". He really wished he had remembered her name—it'd just make things easier in the end.

"Well," the girl started, wringing her hands nervously, something she'd done the first night as well. "I just…I didn't want…my…oh what the hell…this isn't how I wanted my first time to be."

She immediately blushed and winced, expecting Spot to either laugh or do something that humiliated her. He merely sat there, stunned by her explanation, trying to understand exactly what she meant. Sure, he new she was inexperienced, but he never thought of himself as the one to…take her 'innocence' away. He just raised his eyebrows, looking at her dumbfounded.

She seemed to be absolutely mortified. She stood before him; her hair tousled, her lipstick faded, there, in nothing but her corset and knickers, blushing something fierce. She felt like nothing short of an idiot. Spot coughed, unsure of really what to say.

"Um…well," he searched for words to say. She just shook her head and picked her dress up off the floor, obliviously giving Spot one hell of a view down her corset. He diverted his gaze, feeling wrong for looking at her like that without her knowing. She held her dress to her, covering herself.

"I just," the girl started softly. Her eyes were sad. "I wanted it to be special, you know? I didn't want it to be with someone who couldn't care less about me, who didn't know me, I didn't want it to be because I was getting paid…I…I wanted to be in love, I guess…I know that sounds stupid. I…I wanted it to be something special, something…beautiful…I dunno, I'm sorry…I…oh God I've made such a fool of myself." She looked down, looking like she wanted to disappear.

Spot rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like an idiot as well. The poor girl, he thought. She was so young and naïve. He remembered his first time and how none of those thoughts had even crossed his mind—he never thought of it as something like that…something beautiful? He looked at sex in a totally different light. He swallowed, wanting to just get rid of the girl. He really wished Miss Velvadine would just send him Spice or another hooker for that matter—this really was rather exhausting.

The girl tucked her hair behind her ears and something caught his eye. She had a bandage wrapped around her wrist. He frowned, looking at the bandage. Before he could think about it, he blurted out, "What happened?"

The girl looked up. She quirked an eyebrow, then looked at the bandage as well. "Nothing," she said, moving her wrist out of sight. Spot wasn't satisfied; he reached out and grabbed her wrist. She winced in pain and immediately he dropped her arm.

"I don't think 'nothin' would hoit ya," Spot commented smartly. She looked at him and gave him a questioning glance. He grabbed his shirt from the floor and put it on, buttoning the buttons up. "What happened?"

She hesitated, and then shrugged. "Cigarette burn." Spot raised an eyebrow.

"I didn't know ya smoked," he said, wanting to smirk. The girl gave him a look, and then rolled her eyes.

"I don't."

He didn't want to smirk anymore. He felt a sick feeling in his stomach as he realized where she had gotten that burn. He knew how, but he wanted to make sure anyway. "Did…did Miss Velvadine give ya that?"

The girl swallowed and stepped into her dress, not meeting his eyes. "Can you button this up for me?" She asked, ignoring his question. He obeyed, and when he was finished the girl took a breath and looked at him.

"Listen, I'm sorry again," she said, and she truly sounded sorry. "I…I'll make sure I don't come back to you. I don't know why Miss Velvadine keeps sending me…"

Spot hesitated, and he didn't know why but he reached into the back pocket of his pants and held out a roll of bills. The girl's eyes widened, but she shook her head. "Uhm, no, don't worry about it."

Spot continued to hold out the money. "Listen goil, I'se hate tah break it to you'se but if you'se don' bring back somethin' she's just gonna hoit ya again. Ya know if ya keep this up you'se ain't nevah gonna get paid."

She looked upset but nodded. "I know, I…I still can't take the money."

"What are ya gonna do when she sends ya to anotha client?" Spot asked, raising his eyebrows. "Are ya gonna refuse 'im too? What if he won't have it? What ya gonna do then?"

The girl narrowed her eyes. "I don't know! I…I don't know…"

Spot shook his head and thrust the money into her hands. "Take it, okay. Just…get yer act together goily." She took the money, and looked at him, thanking Spot with her eyes. Then, she gave him a crooked smile.

"I have a name, you know," she said, raising an eyebrow. Spot immediately regretted not remembering it. She laughed, obviously aware he had forgotten. "It's Lottie, just so you know."

She turned to leave, and Spot smiled softly to himself. He hadn't been too far off…he'd gotten the "L" right at least. Lottie turned around and sighed softly.

"Thank you," she said. He nodded, wishing she'd leave already. "And I'm sorry again…"

Spot just shrugged. "Forget it," he muttered, sitting on his bed and reaching under the mattress to pull out a new carton of cigarettes. He lit one, and gave the girl a questioning look. She hesitated, opened her mouth to say something, then deciding against it she closed her mouth, turned, and left.

Spot lay back on his bed, wondering why he had paid the girl and wondering if he'd ever see her again. He didn't really care, but there was just something about her that intrigued him. A hooker who was a virgin, who rather _make love_ than _have sex_, who didn't want to sleep with Spot Conlon. It blew his mind.


	6. Vulnerability

**Wow. It's been a long, long time. Almost a year. I just got a sudden...kick or something. A sudden urge to write this story again, to pick up where I left off. I don't know how that's going to turn out, and I sincerely hope I didn't lose all of the awesome reviewers who read this story. I guess we'll see what happens then. **

**:) So here's to...well, new inspiration. **

* * *

The warm spring evening cast a glow as Lottie scrubbed the outside of the Widow's Rose, the sun setting with each minute. Her fingers were calloused and the raw skin burned each time she dipped her ratty rag into the steaming bucket of wash water Lady had given Lottie that afternoon. She had been instructed to scrub the grimy bricks just outside the back of the Widow's Rose leading to the alleyway. For what reason, Lottie had no idea. Who cared about the back of the building? But Lottie figured it had something greatly to do with her punishment of the missing pay a few weeks ago. When Lottie had given Miss Velvadine the money she had received from Spot three nights ago, Miss Velvadine had been rather pleased, but her wrath of punishment had not ceased whatsoever. The marks on Lottie's fingers and bruises among her body proved that fact all too clearly.

The warm season was just getting started and Lottie could smell summer in the air. It was a crisp feeling and she awaited the late days with excitement. She despised the fall and winter, and absolutely loved spring and summer, despite the suffocating humidity that didn't quite agree with her mane of curls. She didn't care. The simple smell of lilacs and honeydew was enough to make her forget the treacherous ways of New York City. Not that she had smelled lilacs _or _honeydew for a very, very long time but she chose to ignore this insignificant detail. Everything just…fell into place during the summer. It was perfection at Mother Nature's best.

She kept thinking of Spot and she didn't know why.

It was really starting to bother her. After the last night they had spent together, she absolutely could _not _get him out of her mind and she hated that fact. Every time she remembered the feel of his bare chest beneath her trembling fingers, she couldn't help but shiver and feel shame mingled with desire she couldn't suppress. It absolutely infuriated her. Out of all the boys she could _possibly_ become interested in, why, why, _why_ did it have to be _Spot Conlon?_ By now Lottie had understood the type of reputation he held—the kind of girls he chased, the way he was one of the most feared newsies in all of New York. And yet…the last time she had been sent to him, she swore she had seen something in his eyes—something that had died long ago, but was fighting to break out. Who knows. Maybe she had just been imagining things—wishing there was good in his heart.

But there was. There _was _good in his heart. He wasn't cruel to her—he gave her his money and she hadn't given him anything at all. He could have hurt her—he was much bigger and stronger than she was—he could have easily gotten his money's worth. But he hadn't. Spot had let Lottie go—he'd seen her shake with fear and he had let her go.

What did it _mean?_

_Nothing, _Lottie thought. _Nothing at all._

Her fingers started to bleed and Lottie bit her lip, keeping the agony inside her where it always was. She scrubbed hard—so hard her arms became numb and her vision unfocused, so hard that she completely lost herself in her cleaning, the sun dying, leaving a pink evanescent glow on the shady alleyway. In all truth, she'd rather scrub a thousand grubby brick walls in alleyways than go back inside the Widow's Rose, or visit another man's room. Cleaning was something she grew used to in previous years. It was mindless work, yes, but there was a certain satisfaction which grew out of cleaning. The end product always filled a void inside of Lottie. A void she wasn't quite sure would ever leave.

It was getting late. And Lottie was getting hungry. Plopping her rag into the bucket of steaming water, Lottie fingered a quarter in her apron pocket. It was pure luck she had found the corner—but having been forced to clean so much, she'd found quite a number of things. So maybe some good was coming out of her punishment—she'd found a quarter after all, tucked neatly away under the fire hearth in the kitchen. If she hadn't of found it, it would have melted the next time she'd be forced to cook a meal.

Lottie looked up at her handy-work. That was enough for tonight, she decided. It was a Thursday, and the Widow's Rose wasn't as busy as its' usual weekends. Grabbing her cleaning materials, she made her way into the back of the building, distributing her cleaning supplies in the cleaning closet, then making her way back to her room. On her way there, she passed a familiar face. Katie was carrying a book in her hand, off duty for the night, and looked up when Lottie passed her.

"Hey!" Lottie said, in a rather good mood. In truth, she was mostly glad to just be done her chores for the night. "What are you up to?"

Katie grinned at Lottie, her long blonde hair pulled low in a piece of twine rope. Her usual black eye makeup adorned her face, and she looked as sallow and run down as ever.

"Just reading," Katie said, closing her book. "Finished for the night?"

Lottie nodded happily as her stomach gave a fierce growl. She grinned as Katie laughed a little. "Yeah, finally I'm done for the night. But I'm starving—want to go get a bite to eat? It's not too late…Miss Velvadine's probably in her office."

Katie hesitated for a moment, then shrugged, stowing her book away in her dress pocket. "Sure, what the hell. I could use something to eat." Lottie smiled, glad to have the company for the night.

* * *

Brooklyn was alive at night. Everything just seemed even more awake than usual—venders were about, drunks were crying out for their lost loves, newsboys darted around in attempts to sell the last of the evening edition. Bums were at their usual places for the night, trying to scam money for their booze, the temporary remedy of a broken soul. Lottie and Katie made their way hastily into the warm night—side dodging any shady-looking folk. The night air was warm and thick—summer was definitely around the corner. Lottie's hair weighed down the heat, causing her to frizz and sweat, but she didn't care. Tonight she was off work—tonight Lottie and Katie were just two normal girls, getting some dinner. No one knew them, no one expected anything. It was an exhilarating feeling to be unknown.

"Where we goin'?" Katie asked, looking around at the familiar streets of Brooklyn.

Lottie bit her lip, gathering her surroundings. She'd lived in Brooklyn for awhile now, and was growing accustomed to the streets. "I only know one diner—Biddy's. They are pretty cheap, mind going there?"

Katie shrugged her shoulders. "Fine by me—I've been there a thousand times. You keep forgettin' I've lived in this city my whole life." She gave Lottie a crooked smile, and Lottie grinned.

"I…sorry," Lottie said sheepishly. "I guess I think everyone's pretty new here." The two girls made their way toward the diner, which was pretty busy for a Thursday night. Once they entered, the temperature only seemed to increase with the number of people stuffed inside.

"Maybe this was a mistake," Lottie muttered to Katie, as they pushed their way through the crowd. Along with the usual number of newsboys in the diner, regular locals were interspersed as well. Biddy's seemed to be quite the popular eat around the Brooklyn slums. Katie pulled hard on Lottie's hand as they found an open booth by the window.

"Well, we'se here now, mine as well stay," Katie said, sitting across from Lottie. "Damn, it sure as hell is crowded. You think something's goin' on?" Lottie furrowed her brows, shrugging.

"Why?"

"There's like a gaggle of boys over there," Katie said, nodding to the center of the diner. Lottie looked over, and in fact, there were a group of fifteen or so boys, all huddled around a table, apparently deep in conversation. By their outfits and ink-smudged hands, Lottie knew immediately these boys were newsies. She even recognized a few of their faces, just by merely passing their selling spots on the street. However, one face seemed to stand out particular to her—a sharp, strong-jawed face she'd seen one too many times. Spot Conlon himself sat in the middle of the huddle, talking low, his head bent so Lottie could barely make out his fierce and striking blue eyes. He held an air of power around him that most men twice his age couldn't even dream of obtaining—every young man around him hung on his every word, as if their life depended on it. Lottie sensed that if he wished to do so, Spot Conlon could make every boy in his borough, and allying boroughs for that matter, jump squarely off the Brooklyn Bridge humming London Bridge is Falling Down without so much as a second thought.

"Oh no," Lottie grumbled, burying her face into the menu, quickly disappearing behind it, hoping Spot wouldn't catch her eye. Not that he even noticed her presence—he hadn't seen Lottie and Katie walk into the diner, but Lottie wanted to be extra careful. She wasn't intent on another awkward encounter between the two of them. And yet, the mere presence of Spot was enough to make the hair on the back of Lottie's neck stand straight up. "Qucik, stop looking Katie."

"Why?" Katie asked, confused by Lottie's sudden peculiar behavior. Tentatively, Lottie lowered the menu and made sure Spot was deep in his conversation before relaxing her shoulders a bit.

"Spot Conlon's over there," Lottie muttered. At this, Katie's eyes grew wide and she looked around excitedly. "Stop it! You're being ridiculously obvious."

Katie let out a giggle, something Lottie wasn't even sure Katie had the ability to do. Katie herself seemed a bit surprised by this girlish act, and laughed rather loudly. "Lottie, you're being dumb. Who cares? I mean, we _are_ in Brooklyn. This _is _the newsies' diner. The chances of running into him are pretty great. Get used to it." Katie's eyes flicked over to the gaggle and fell on the cold Brooklyn leader himself. "Damn, I haven't seen him in a few months. Sure is a looker. Never comes around to the Rose anymore…usually just…orders out."

Lottie curled her lip back in disgust, shrugging her shoulders. "Why does he have so much authority anyway? What's so…great about him?"

Katie shrugged, taking a sip of water their waiter had just placed in front of them. "I dunno. Ever since I could remember Spot Conlon been runnin' the Brooklyn newsies. He ain't much older than me—but I just remember him being so scary, even when we were kids. He's real tough. I grew up around the streets with his lot, knew him practically me whole life. He's got a cold heart, but I've never seen anyone like Spotty Conlon take care of his boys the way he does—sure he ain't soft or nothin', but his Brooklyn pride is thicker than anythin' else."

Lottie took in everything Katie said. There was something about Spot but she couldn't quite pin exactly what it is. Disregarding him for a minute, a new fact registered in Lottie's mind.

"Er…Katie," she said, playing with a corner of her napkin. "Have you noticed…we're the only girls in here?"

Katie put her water down, flicked her eyes about the room, then shrugged, totally unfazed. "Yeah…well Biddy's ain't really known for being the coziest place. Most girls just stay clear of it I guess. I don't mind it…I mean…I've seen worse things than a gaggle of newsies and a few bums."

Lottie gave Katie a gentle grin, looking into eyes of a battered and broken girl. This girl who sat before Lottie truly did have a kind heart, despite everything she'd been exposed to her whole life. It really made you believe in faith—believe that there _was_ some good left in the world. There was hope, there was just…something out there. People like Katie, who could still feel and weren't numb…it was people like her that helped Lottie to just wake up each day and know that somehow, some way everything really would be…okay. Even if that day didn't come for a long, long time.

When they had finished eating, Lottie and Katie stood up to leave, throwing down their money on the table. Lottie immediately felt panic wash over her, involuntary of course, but nevertheless it turned her stomach upside-down. Glancing to the center of Biddy's, Lottie saw that the group of newsies hadn't budged. If anything, they'd just gotten bigger. No matter what, she'd have to pass Spot, but more than likely he wouldn't so much as glance up in her direction, which somewhat calmed Lottie's nerves. Even if he _did _happen to see her, Lottie was sure he wouldn't so much as even hold her gaze for more than a split second. He'd never approach her, never nod in acknowledgement. It was just the sheer fact that the two had had such awkward encounters…it was just unsettling to Lottie.

It was definitely late—even standing inside the diner, Lottie knew it had to be well past ten o'clock. Curfew for the girls of the Widow's Rose was midnight on weekdays if they were off-duty, and on the weekends three, of course, if they were off duty. Making her way out of the booth, Lottie followed Katie through the thick tangle of boys, most of them throwing the pair of only girls in the diner curious looks. Some had an animal hunger in their stares, others merely nodded at them as they passed. They were approaching Spot's table now, and the newsies all around him begin popping their head up to watch as the girls passed. The hush of the newsies made Lottie's skin crawl. They were evidently discussing something very important and secretive, or they would have not grew so quiet as the girls passed.

Lottie almost wanted Spot to look up—she wanted him to see her, just so she could look into his eyes again, just for a moment. She wished things hadn't been so…weird between them. At least she wasn't on his, well, bad side per say. But his menacing demeanor and intimidating persona made Lottie's insides wiggle. It seemed an eternity ago she was pressing her hands against his bare chest, his large and rough hands working the back of her dress. In all actuality, it was a bit surreal. She never felt such a strangeness between a person and herself, and yet, they had barely exchanged in total more than a few sentences. They barely knew each other…they _didn't _know each other. But when she looked into those cool eyes of his, Lottie felt vulnerability inside of her she never thought she had.

Spot was in mid-sentence when his eyes flicked up and rested on Lottie. She felt her heard begin to beat fast and loud, her palms get sweaty and she was rapidly losing her composure. The thing of it was, Spot was the only man she'd ever kissed. She felt like he had almost…_stolen_ a part of her. And that scared her a little bit. And now as she was approaching him, about to pass, his eyes lingered on her. All the boys eyes were on the two girls as they made their way past, but Spot's stuck out to her. She couldn't read his eyes—or his face. He was stone cold, but he was definitely looking at her—almost curiously. He stopped talking, and opened and closed his mouth several times. He seemed to have…faltered? Stumbled? _Something. _But no sooner than he had lost his train of thought did he regain it back, and in almost a flash time sped up; Lottie and Katie were out of the diner, and the important chatter had resumed, as if the two girls had never even been there.

"Did you see that?" Katie said to Lottie, once out into the night. "He definitely remembers you—he looked right at you."

Lottie shrugged. "They were _all _looking at us…they all seemed so…tense. I wonder if something's up."

Katie shrugged, scrunching back her dress sleeves. Though the night air was a bit cooler, the heat was still there, warm as ever in the busy Brooklyn streets.

Lottie bit her lip as they made their way back to the Widow's Rose. "I don't want to go back to him. I'm scared Katie. I…I have absolutely _no _idea what I'm doing. At all."

Katie gave Lottie a sympathetic look, her haunting brown eyes wide and glistening. She looked at Lottie with the look a mother might give to her daughter, a look that just screams pity and sorrow intermingled with pain. "Lottie, you shouldn't be doin' this. You're _better_ than the Rose…you…you just don't belong here."

Lottie's heart hurt for the girl next to her. "And you do? What makes _me _so different. No one deserves to sell their bodies. It's…it's all not right."

Katie shrugged, pulling out a cigarette from her back pocket. She offered Lottie one, who refused, then lit up, taking a long, deep drag. "Yeah, but that's life for ya. Not right. Shit, what am I supposed to do else? I'm not gonna starve. And I'm getting out of here. You can bet on that."

Lottie looked sadly at her new friend, hoping more than ever that things would one day work out for Katie Rommely. In the pit of her stomach, however, Lottie felt a sinking feeling that neither of them were ever going to leave New York City or the Widow's Rose for that matter, for a very, very long time.


End file.
